It was a long season of unrelenting conflicts. Day after day, they beat on me like a hot sun until I felt like I had all but dried up. My heart was baked hard and impenetrable, drawn out from my body like clay from a kiln.

I did not like this child of mine, not really, and any emotional feelings of love I had once known had long cemented into bare obligation. Fissures of anger and frustration ran through me like fault lines; I felt at any moment, I would break.

Of all my children, this one had challenged me the most. We rubbed each other against the grain until static sparked. And I was weary of it. The constant friction had skinned me of any tenderness, compassion, or delight until I had little toleration for even minor infractions or personality differences.

I had become quick to anger, slow to speak praise, resentful, irritable, and everything else that love is not. I had become everything I never thought I’d be as a mother.

There was a deadness in me that was terrifying, ugly, and shameful. I knew it. I felt it, heavy and horrifying within me. I thought about the unspeakable damage I was doing to this child by being overly critical and harsh. Why, God? I cried. Why did you give me this child if I was going to mess it up this bad?

But I had no idea how to change it. Maybe it was already too late. Can a dead heart beat again? Can something so hard become soft once more?

Then one day, everything shattered. It was the same battle we had fought before, on repeat. Only this time, I had nothing left. No margin, no buffer, no grace. What may have been normal childish behavior felt to me like willful disobedience and purposeful provocation.

It felt personal.

When my husband came home from work, I was so upset, I could barely speak, and what I could say was vile. “You have to handle this,” I said, “or I am going to say something I shouldn’t.”

He went to our child’s room and talked in low, patient tones, the kind I didn’t seem to have in my settings anymore. Then, a long while later, he found me. I didn’t want to talk about it, yet somehow, I ended up telling him everything. He listened until my anger slowly distilled into its true form: fear.

I was so afraid.

I was afraid of what I felt in my heart, afraid of who I was becoming, afraid of the trajectory of my relationship with this kid if I could not get a grip on this, and so afraid that I would not be able to fix it.

All that fear came bubbling out. Even shame could not hold it down, even though I wished it could. It is a wretched thing to vomit up all the bile in your soul. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

“I think one day you’ll be great friends,” my husband said quietly when I was done. “But this is not something you can fix.”

In my frustration and bitterness, I had forgotten that. I didn’t want to ask God for help because I didn’t want him to know I needed it.

That changed the minute I confessed my struggle out loud. There in the bedroom before God and my husband, everything that had been stuffed into the hidden places of my heart was hauled out into the light. It was shocking. Unholy. Disgraceful.

And freeing.

What else could I be afraid of? What guilt could torment me and hold me down? I had already said it all.

A little space opened up in that stone of a heart for life to pulse. For the first time in a long time, I felt the heartbeat of hope. Perhaps it was not too late for God to raise the dead.

There was no Lazarus awakening, no sudden transformation, but only a slow softening, like spring. In fact, I found it hard to pray at first. I was still raw, and it’s hard to pray over the hurting places with any amount of faith that one day, it will be different.

But it only takes a little bit of faith to melt a heart of stone, and God was willing to supply it. The more I softened, the more I could pray, and the more I prayed, the more God rebuilt the relationship I thought was destined to failure.

Slowly, God began to show me the beautiful blessings of having a child so unlike me. The friction that created sparks in our relationship also sharpened us and drew us both closer to Christ. I needed this kid to be exactly the way God created them to be.

What started out as a set of circumstances that hardened my heart turned out to be the single greatest thing God has used in my life to grow it.

Perhaps you have been in a difficult season of parenting, and you feel devoid of any joy toward the child you bore. Your heart is hard, and you wonder if there’s anything that can ever change that.

I’m here to tell you there is hope for you, mama, and grace. It is never too late for God to soften your heart and restore the relationship you have with your child. God will do the work.

What is keeping you from running to him for help? What is holding you back?
Perhaps today is the day to lay down your anger, guilt, and frustration. Perhaps today is the day to let God begin mending your heart.

She stands in the kitchen with her arms up to her elbows in soapy water. She smiles when you come in, but it’s one of those tired smiles, like her lips aren’t convinced the effort is worth it. There’s a sadness in her eyes, too, and you can’t figure it out.

You didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything. As far as you know, the weekend was great. She made pancakes for breakfast; you got that project done that she’s been asking you to do for weeks. Then you all went to the park, and you listened to her chatter endlessly while you watched the kids play.

So what gives? It’s like you can’t make her happy, no matter how much time you spend together. It’s never enough for her.

You shuffle out of the kitchen thinking, “If she wants to talk, she’ll talk.”
But she doesn’t.

Even though I don’t know your wife, and I don’t know you, I think I know why she is sad on Sunday.

She is sad on Sundays because the weekend is already used up, and the next day, you leave again. Tomorrow, you go back to work, and she is left all alone with everyone in the sometimes overwhelming work of motherhood and homemaking. Your wife feels the weight of a week stretching out before her, and she feels very alone.

“Boy, I’d sure much rather stay home all day than go to work,” you might think. Please don’t say it—just listen. Your work is hard; she knows it. She knows it’s not fun to get up in the morning every day and physically go to work. She knows you put in long days, and you do it to provide for her and the kids. She loves you for that.

But at the end of the day, you get to shut your office door and leave the work behind, most days.

She doesn’t.

Because “home” for you is not the same as “home” for your wife. Home for you is the place you come when your work is done. It is the respite, the rest you’ve earned. You can turn off the car, walk up the front steps, and be done.

Your wife lives at her work. She wakes up every day to work and goes to bed every night to work. There is no break, no marked finish line, no 5 o’clock quitting time. Every space she moves in is one she has to care for; every mouth is one she has to feed. All the things that make your home warm and comfortable and inviting are things she has to dust and sweep, wash and put away.

That’s why she gives you the evil eye when you leave your socks on the floor, because at the end of the day, she feels she is responsible for this space you call home. Of course you pitch in and help. You are not one of those men who comes home and just checks out. But the emotional weight of caring for a home and children is different for you than it is for her.

That’s because it’s her job.

You see, your wife does not just stay at home; she lives at work.

And it is good and lovely and all those things, but it’s also constant, never-ending, and exhausting. There is always something more to be done, and when something isn’t done, she feels as if it reflects on her as a wife, mother, and woman.

When she doesn’t do a “good job” at home, she feels bad about herself.

I know that’s hard to imagine because if you’re like most men, you’re good at putting work in a box and viewing it logically. You know all the housework isn’t hers, and you know it’s not her fault that the laundry didn’t get done. So why does she feel that way?

Maybe this will help: imagine you and your wife own a doughnut shop. That sounds fantastic, doesn’t it? Doughnuts all day, every day.

But you don’t just own a doughnut shop, you live there. And you don’t just live there by yourself. You live there with all of your customers.

Every day, it’s your job to promote your doughnut shop. You bring samples to people and deliver special orders. People love you. They throw money at you and beg you to come back tomorrow. You’re the hero. You’re the doughnut guy.

Meanwhile, your wife stays at the shop. She makes the doughnuts, serves the customers, wipes down the counters, answers the phone, mixes up more dough…all while the customers are eating everything she’s made, putting sticky fingers all over the freshly-cleaned tables, and complaining that they wanted chocolate and not vanilla.

When you get home from your rounds, your part of the job is done. The customers cheer when you walk in, and you take off your coat and wrestle around a bit until they’re hungry again. You take a peek at your wife, who’s in the kitchen, where it looks for all the world like a flour bomb went off.

You wonder what she’s been doing all day, but you’re smart enough not to ask.

Let me tell you: she’s been doing the same things over and over and over again all day long, and she is beginning to think she will never get to the end of it. Worse, she feels like a failure because she believes that if she was just was a little more organized, or a little less scattered, or a little bit…better at this, she could get to the end of her work. She could be done.

And she could enjoy you and the kids the way you do when you come home from work.

That is why she is sad on Sunday. Because even after a weekend, even with you home, she is not done. She is not angry with you or resentful. She simply wishes for all the world that she could pause time and just be in her home and not at work.

It’s not that she needs you to work harder or help her more, unless you are one of those guys who just checks out. But husband, if you look at your wife on Sunday night and see that kind of sadness in her eyes, there are some things you can do to help.

Write her a note and leave it on the coffee pot where she’ll see it Monday morning.

Call to check in on her. Sure, she texts you a million times a day. Tomorrow, beat her to it.

Pray for her. Let her hear you.

Write out Scripture passages and leave them on the fridge. Here’s a good one: “An excellent wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels.” Proverbs 31:10

Make it a habit to ask, “What’s one thing I could do to help you tonight?”

Help her relax even when her work is not done (because between you and me, it never will be). Make the popcorn and start the movie, then pull her out of the kitchen for a break.

Be appreciative. You earn a paycheck and praises at work, but she doesn’t. Say thanks—it will encourage her heart more than you know.

When your wife is sad on Sunday, pull her close. Let her know she’s not working alone. You are in this together, and she is home.

“Wow, what happened?” I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door. Rivers were running down her cheeks.

“I don’t know! I thought I understood the book, but then the test had all these questions that were confusing, and I didn’t know what they were asking and…” The words tumbled out with her tears.

We stood in the hallway dripping.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just one test.”

“No, Mom! It wasn’t just one test. It was a really big test!” My conscientious first-born looked at the ground and wrapped her arms tighter to herself. “I don’t know what happened.”

All she could see of herself in that moment was her failure. She saw a kid who had successfully knocked her grade down a full letter in just one shot. She saw someone who hadn’t studied well enough, who didn’t read carefully, and who made the wrong choices when it mattered.

She couldn’t see everything else that she is.

All she could see was her lack.

I saw my own reflection in her teary eyes. How often I evaluate myself on my failures and measure myself by my shortcomings! All day long, I collect little infractions and big sins. When the darkness sweeps over me at night and I’m left alone with my thoughts, I lay them all out on the table one by one to see just how bad of a wife and mother I really am.

I lost my patience.

I used “that tone” again.

I put off the project my husband asked me to do.

I made my daughter feel bad about her math mistakes.

I spent too much time on my computer.

I didn’t do the Bible reading with the kids.

It all stacks up to a big, fat failing grade. I wonder why I haven’t been able to do better even though I have tried and tried and tried. How could God love this stumbling, tripping child who can’t seem to go through a day without scraping her knees?

But I look at my daughter struggling with her failure, and I long to embrace her and show her who she really is to me.

She is so much more than a grade on a test.

She is my treasure, my beloved child. Nothing she could ever do or not do could make me love her any less or any more. She already has all of me.

And suddenly, I know just how my heavenly Father feels about me when I fail. He stands in the hallway with me as I bumble on about my collection of infractions, and I know he longs to scoop me up and say, “Tough day, huh kiddo?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know something?”

“What?”

“You are my treasured possession, the very one I have chosen especially for this.”

I want to argue with God and tell him that he didn’t pick very well, that he should have chosen someone with a little more going on, someone who messes up a lot less, someone who doesn’t need all the grace she takes.

“Look at what I did today,” I manage to mumble.

“I didn’t choose you because of what you could do; I chose you because of what Jesus did.”

I look to the ground and nod. It’s the best thing to do when God is right but you’re not quite ready admit it.

“Can I ask you something?” God says.

“It depends.”

“Do you think there’s anything you can do that will undo Jesus?”

The question stops me cold. I’m sure there must be something. It sure feels like it. But that’s just it: all the guilt and self-reproach is just a feeling, nothing more.

I have absolutely nothing in my arsenal of failures that is more powerful than what Christ has done.

“You can’t undo what Jesus has done—you’re not God. Nothing you can ever do wrong or anything you ever do right will ever erase his sacrifice on your behalf. I planned it that way.”

I smile to myself because it is true, and because it is comforting. None of my shortcomings is strong enough to undo Christ’s sacrifice; in fact, the more I fail, the more profoundly his sacrifice cleanses me, adopts me, and defines me.

I am a mother who fails, but I have Jesus. I am a wife who neglects, but I have Jesus. I am a daughter of God who messes up, but I have Jesus.

When God looks at my failing grade, he doesn’t see less of me. He sees more of Jesus.

And for two dripping kids who can’t seem to do better than a failing grade, that is more than enough.